Page 5

“There’s a pin stickin’ out of your arse,” said a voice.

I turned to find the spitter frowning, arms crossed, staring at the waistof my skirt. When he saw my obvious disgust, he merely shrugged. “Just thought you should know.”

I adjusted the pin at the small of my back, poking it securely into the folds of my skirt. “Keep your eyes elsewhere,” I bit out.

He frowned. “I think if I were likely to sit on a pin in the near future, I’d want someone to tell me.”

“Weren’t goin’ to sit on it,” I muttered, hoping he’d say no more.

Instead, the boy stuck his hands in his pockets. He rose his sun-bleached eyebrows. “What’s your name?”

I didn’t answer, didn’t want the spitter to know me, but the pig ploughed on. “Mine is Patrick Colson. Patty, if you like.”

I continued to glare.

“I’m from Kenton Hill.” He persevered. “Reckon I’m headed back there, too. Where’re you from?”

“Scurry” came the answer. It flew past my lips without my permission. I clamped my mouth shut.

Patrick nodded knowingly. “By the river.”

I hesitated, then nodded. I was surprised, perhaps by the idea that anyone outside of Scurry knew of its existence, perhaps that this boy knew anything at all.

“I’ll call you Scurry girl, then,” he said, expression suddenly serious. “Why’s there a pin in your arse, Scurry girl?”

My nose wrinkled. “Don’t call me that.”

“Gotta call you somethin’. I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Nina.” I sighed, annoyed. “And the pin is keepin’ this skirt from fallin’ round my ankles.”

He gave a low whistle. “That’d ruin the occasion, eh?”

I rolled my eyes and turned away again, looking for somewhere, anywhere to escape to.

“I, on the other hand, wouldloveto see this whole fuckin’ ceremony ruined.” He said it in a voice made of razors.

I couldn’t help but turn back to peer at him again, to watch thegentleness in his features harden. “I’d gathered,” I said. “You spit like a miner.”

“Ah,” his eyes sparked, as though I’d revealed something important. “So, your daddy’s a miner, then?”

“And just as bitter.”

“Not much to be pleased about when you’re stuck in a hole all day.”

“Then it should please you to be here, shouldn’t it? Maybe you’ll be destined for a different line of work.” I didn’t quite know why I bothered arguing. The woman at the microphone called for the children of Brimshire and Bunderly to queue next, and there was more shifting of bodies, more space as children went in through those double doors and didn’t return, and yet Patrick Colson and I stood in place, steadfast and immovable amid the tide.

I could only assert that his face was hugely annoying, that his tone was superior, and that I very much wanted to prove him wrong.

He also reeked of the same hatred that frothed from the mouths of men in Scurry, and it rankled to hear it here in the city, so far from the soot.

“Nah,” Patrick said nonchalantly. “Not me. Son of Craftsman who was the son of Craftsman and so on. I’ll be back on that train by nightfall, just you watch.” His smile waned a little, as though he was suddenly not so sure. “And if the idiumdoestake, then I’ll refuse to ever take another dose. They’ll have to send me home eventually.” He seemed comforted by the idea. I nearly envied him that.

Then I remembered those bigger things I was meant for.

“What about you?” he continued. “You’re prayin’ to be at that swank school, I take it?”

I didn’t like the way he said it, like it was a myth only gullible kids still believed in. I lifted my chin. “Why wouldn’t I?”